Alas, today seems no different than yesterday. It is still with me.
The all-too-familiar pulsating begins and strengthens, and I find myself driven to the medicine cabinet once again to partake of the narcotics I despise yet desperately need. Trust me; if I could, one day, awaken pain-free, the bottles would be emptied into the toilet in a heartbeat, never to be thought of again. At this point in time, though, I depend on these drugs to keep my head pain at a level that is just short of screamingly intense. I don't want another trip to the emergency room. I hate what the shots do to me more than I hate what the narcotics and anxiolytics do to me. I don't like having to depend on drugs to keep me sane while, at the same time, they steal more of who I am by limiting my thought processes, my independence, and my ability to earn a living.
I've seen the addicts. I've administered the Dilaudid dose - the one that knocks me on my ass when they give it to me in a shot into my butt - through an IV line, along with some Phenergan and Benadryl, and seen the patient who got it casually stroll down the stairs 10 minutes later to suck on a cigarette. I've seen the ones who demand you give it quickly and curse you when you won't, because they are thereby denied the head rush that fast IV push drugs bring. I WILL NOT GO THERE. If I'm feeling bad enough to take narcotics, I take them, and I go to bed, or lie on the couch. I don't function well enough to trust myself when I'm under their influence. If I'm in that much pain, I don't want to eat, or drink, or do much of anything.
In a few minutes here I will be downing another half Vicodin, extra-strength. I don't want to take it, but if I don't, the chances are I'll have to take more later, or we'll be flying down the highway, me with a towel over my head to block out the searing light, on our way to the emergency room for another dose of the far-more-potent drug I'd rather stay as distant from as I can.
I hate this.